


The Liquor On Your Lips Makes You Dangerous

by Watabi12



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, BDSM, Bartender!Timmy, Caning, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Kissing, M/M, Rope Bondage, Spanking, dom!armie, sub!timmy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watabi12/pseuds/Watabi12
Summary: New York City. 1925. Timmy is a lowly bartender and Armie is the rich man that hires him to serve at his party until the situation takes a turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a list of 1920s slang words: http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/Social%20Studies/PDF/Slang%20of%20the%201920s.pdf. 
> 
> Thanks to y'all that encouraged me. Feel free to comment. You can find me on tumblr at @vintage-mist (my main) or @queerezra-daddyhiddles-sweetea (Ezra Miller/Hiddleston/Timmy fan blog). Hope you like it!
> 
> Title is lyrics from 'You Can Be The Boss' Lana Del Rey. 
> 
> Probably a few mistakes here and there.
> 
> Oh and whoever complained about my tags being wrong - thanks, love getting emails from mods :).

Timmy didn’t really like the long parties that rich people on the Upper East Side threw. Nobody seemed to like throwing parties better than Mr Hammer. He was the heir to a load of money or something. Timmy thought was too young to have _that_ much money but his father had died just after Mr Hammer graduated from Harvard and then he moved to the city. That, and that he threw these parties for the rich and bright of New York is all Timmy really knew about Mr Hammer. He knew that the man appeared as genial enough, for a rich guy. He didn’t ever expect gentleman on the Upper East Side to show him any kind of respect. Timmy had been manning the bar with a few others all night. On nights like this there was no rest for the wicked. There would a small window of, perhaps, half an hour where he could dance or have a drink. He never usually stayed around in that time because he was dressed like staff and therefore, he would be perpetually interrupted. He usually swiped some champagne – one bottle was never missed – and slope off somewhere to be undisturbed for as long as he thought he could get away with.

      ‘Get me another, will you?’ Veronica said.

‘Sure,’ Timmy smiled. Veronica had short dark hair and she looked like a French model – tall and slender with nothing to give you any indication that she may, in fact, be a woman if not for the dress and the ruby lipstick that sculpted her mouth into curves. ‘Here,’ Timmy said. He poured out the cocktail into the glass.

‘Thanks,’ she said. She was gone – back out onto the dance floor of the drunken elite buried in so much smoke, glitter and sweat that one had to wonder how they came back weekend after weekend to do it all again. Timmy put the cloth down on the bar. He touched Newton’s shoulder and he turned absently.

‘I can trust you to manage things for a while, can’t I?’ Timmy shouted over the jazz music that resounded over half of New York from the building.

‘Sure. I doubts that we’ll get many now. Not with the waiters all doin’ their job so good. Wish I could dance like them out there – it looks swell.’

‘Your time with come one day, my man.’

Timmy snagged a bottle of half emptied bottle of champagne and began weaving his way through the crowd. An iron fist held onto his forearm and he was about to pull away until he heard the velvet voice hum under the music.

      ‘Timothée, there you are. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you all night.’

Timmy turned to find that Mr Hammer was gripping onto his arm.  Timothee looked at the man in front of him, wearing an expensive suit and an even more expensive cologne. He was smiling dumbly at him, probably pretty drunk, and sweat dripped from his forehead – forcing Timmy to notice the shape of the man’s face; hard and stubborn lines like the subject of a cubist portrait.

Mr Hammer unclenched from Timmy’s bicep and stuck out his hand. ‘Really good to see, old bean.’

‘You too, sir,’ Timmy responded coolly. After all, through his friendly nature Mr Hammer was still his boss.

‘Enjoying the party?’ Mr Hammer enquired, nodding towards the bottle in Timmy’s hand.

‘No, sir. Just taking a short interlude.’

‘Ah. I see. Then this would be the perfect time to ask you to step into my bedroom for a second.

‘Sir?’ Timmy swallowed.

‘To discuss business.’

Timmy wasn’t sure that he should. His mother would hate it, then again, his ma didn’t know that he was a bootlegger as well as a bartender. Timmy followed Mr Hammer through the mirage of flappers and cads into his bedroom. There was a desk pushed against one wall with a chair, followed by a Chaise longue facing directly towards the four-poster bed that was embroidered with golden detailing from pillar to post. There were various artefacts that conveyed the man’s wealth – a grammar phone, a large clock that ticked soberly against the background noise of the party, a collection of walking canes and various storage furniture carved spectacularly from dark, rich wood.

Mr Hammer placed himself comfortably on the sofa, his hand going into pocket; producing a cigar case and a light. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a wet blanket. I’m not that ossified, you know. Barely touched a drop tonight. Pass me that bottle and come sit down.’

‘This one, sir? I’ve drank out of it already.’

Mr Hammer stretched his arm out to receive it. Timmy gulped as he handed him the bottle and watched him pressed the rim to his lips, where his own lips had been, and slowly drink from it. Timmy knew that he should but he had never felt ashamed of his attraction towards other men, it came as naturally to him as bird flying and he found that no matter how much he attempted to, the spark remained alive, never to be snuffed out. Timmy awkwardly joined Mr Hammer on the couch, leaving a sizable space between them. Mr Hammer popped the bottle on the floor between them and took out a cigar, lighting it. Timmy licked his lips as he watched the round, solid blunt slip between the man’s lips and. Mr Hammer blew out smoke so seductively that Timmy was barely even hearing what he had to say.

      ‘Would you like one? They’re Persian. Real good quality.’

‘No thank you, sir.’

Timmy swiped the bottle from the floor and his turn to place his lips against Mr Hammer’s, only the man didn’t appear to have the same enthral that he had.

‘I would like to talk to you about the supply.’

‘Of course,’ Timmy nodded. He felt stupid for thinking there was anything else to this, whatever it is he thought could be happening.

‘But first. Why don’t we just…’ Mr Hammer paused. ‘Chat.’

‘What about?’

‘Well, I’ve known you for a few months now and I don’t know first damned thing about you.’

‘My life is really uneventful, sir. Not even worth the details.’

Mr Hammer blew out more smoke. ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.’

‘Well, what do you wanna know?’ Timmy asked. He sipped at the bottle nervously.

‘Why not just tell me the basics?’ Mr Hammer smiled.

‘Sure. I grew up downtown, my mother raised me by herself because my father lived up here somewhere and he abandoned us as promptly as he made whoopee with her. My ma said he’s a real cake eater and it’s better this way anyway. She works as a shop assistant and – well, you know where I work.’

‘No brothers or sisters?’

‘No, sir. Just me and my mother.’

Mr Hammer nods. He suddenly comes to his feet and Timmy feels like he should copy him but he resists the urge. Mr Hammer walks over to the desk and presses his cigar down firmly into the ash tray, discarding it there. The butt glows red as his fingertips kill it. Mr Hammer faces away from Timmy, fiddling with this and that. Timmy shuffles in the chair, holding onto the bottle tight with both hands.

‘How much do you know about me, Timothee?’

‘Um. N-not very much, sir. I know that you went to Harvard and moved out here when your father died and you inherited. I know that throw some swell parties.’

‘How about I let you into a little secret from my college days? Would you like that?’

‘I suppose, sir.’

‘Are you a judgmental kind of person, Timothee?’

‘One tries not to be,’ Timmy sighed.

      Mr Hammer moved to fiddling with the canes. Timmy had a sudden vision of Mr Hammer bending him over his knee and striking him mercilessly on his buttocks. His grip tightened around the champagne bottle so hard that his fingers started to ache.

‘When I was in college, I met this gentleman – the real bees knees, a kind and gentle person; interested in poetry and philanthropic gestures. The kinda man that everyone likes because it’s impossible not to see the radiance of his soul. Would it shock you, Timothee, if I told you that we were lovers?’

‘Shock me? No, sir. But the admission is peculiar.’

‘I found myself in him,’ Mr Hammer continued. ‘I never realized until I met him how much passionate could be inspired from causing pain.’

Timmy saw Mr Hammer’s fingers tightened around the curved head of a cane. ‘Sir if I may be permitted to speak freely with you as equals -,’ Timmy said,

‘Of course. Call me Armie,’ the man said. Timmy thought he was smiling even though he still couldn’t view his face.

‘I’m not at all sure why you are telling me this.’

Finally, Armie turned to him – his fingers losing their grip on the cane – there was a fire in his eyes, a smoke of desire as if inhaled from the cigar that he crushed so thoughtlessly. ‘I think that you know exactly why.’

     Timmy swallowed hard, his mouth drying up like grains of sand. He swigged at the bottle again as he stalled himself from finding the words to refuse him. His ma had always warned him not to consort with cads and people exterior to his social class – that only ever caused trouble. Now, sitting in a bedroom in a penthouse in the Upper East Side, he thought that she was dead right. This was gonna cause him nothing but trouble. Yet, against that voice of reason telling him to retreat – he wanted nothing more than relent to him, to let him bend and break him like the cigar and serve him far beyond his remit as a bootlegger or bartend.

When Timmy made no response. Mr Hammer sighed.

'Have I made a terrible mistake?'

Timmy shook his head. 'It's not -,' Timmy stuttered.

'Just tell me honestly,' Mr Hammer said. 'Do you want this?'

'Yes,' Timmy hissed. The word left his mouth before he could register it's existence as a sound. Timmy fucking hated himself. Why couldn't he just keep his goddamn trap shut?

'You really mean it?'

'I do, sir,' Timmy muttered.

Mr Hammer paused; as though he was thinking hard, his eyebrows furrowed and he chewed on his bottom lip. Timmy watched his teeth grind down on it, wishing that was his lips instead.

'Will you lay on the bed for me? Leave the bottle.'

Timmy's eyes widened. He guessed this was actually happening! 'Certainly, sir.'

'I said you could call me Armie and speak as you would to a friend.'

Timmy strolled forward, placing the bottle on the floor. He looked at the bed for a second, taking a deep breath - he clambered onto it and laid himself down on the left side. His legs fizzed as he stretched them. Mr Hammer moved forward until he was standing next to the bed, gazing at him with a demonic fire in his eyes that was impossible not to feel.

'Like this, sir?' Timmy teased defiantly.

Mr Hammer chuckled. 'Have it your own way then.' Timmy watched the man stalk up to him, he let his fingers dance over the fabric covering Timmy’s ribs. Timmy squirmed instinctively. Mr Hammer leant upwards until their faces were inches apart. Timmy may act like a subservient being but that didn’t mean he was one. He quickly pushed his face up to meet Mr Hammer and their lips pressed together, hotly and sloppily, the man grabbing onto Timmy’s jaw and deepening the kiss until he pulled back and they both puffed furiously. Mr Hammer silently strolled around the bed to one of the drawers. He opened it and pulled out a bundle of rope. He closed the drawer, the noise making Timmy jump as it slammed into the thick silence. He stood of Timmy holding onto the rope.

‘Lift your left arm up,’ Mr Hammer ordered. Timmy cautiously stretched. Mr Hammer hooked the rope around Timmy’s wrist and knotted it. Of course this man had been on a boat before. Timmy thought about how he probably owned four. He was brought out of his thoughts by a painful tug on the wrist as Mr Hammer pulled his arm closer to the bed as he bound Timmy to it.

‘You ever done this before?’ Timmy was silent for a second. ‘What? You chewing gum?’

‘Not at all. I have done this before but never with anyone like you.’

‘Like me?’ Mr Hammer questioned. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, like you, sir.’ Timmy glanced around the room as an indication of what he was referring to.

Mr Hammer laughed. ‘Don’t worry.’ He reached across to stroke through Timmy’s brown curls, Timmy nuzzled into his hand. ‘I’ll treat you real nice.’

Mr Hammer backed away, forcing Timmy to grieve the contact. Mr Hammer started towards the bedroom door.

‘Wait. Where are you going?’ Timmy said with some urgency.

‘You think I’m gonna have you with a house full of people? If I’m going to haul your ashes then I want to do it in an empty house.’

‘How long are you going to be?’

‘Don’t be wet. I’ll be as quick as possible.’ Timmy nodded. He liked the feeling of being grounded to the bed. He thought about all the things that Mr Hammer could do on his return; how his fingers squeezed around the canes in a display of power. It was enough to make him hard. ‘You should sleep. Keep your strength up,’ Mr Hammer smirked with a predatory expression.

Mr Hammer exited the room into the fog of champagne and noise, shutting the door gently behind him.

 

*

Timmy was alone with his thoughts. His mind started racing; telling him that this was a mistake and he should demand to leave when Mr Hammer comes back. His eyes stung considerably more than his knotted wrist. The night had been incomprehensibly busy. Mr Hammer’s bed was heaven – Timmy thought that bed must be pure duck feathers. He had never slept on a bed so soft. His eyes flickered shut without his consent.

    Timmy awoke to find a woman with short blonde hair, gothic dark paint around her eyes contrasted by the reddest lips in New York.

‘Hey sugar plum,’ she said. She stroked Timmy’s cheek like she was his child. ‘You feelin’ okay?’

Timmy pulled at the restraint and started – he collected himself enough to sit up. His whole arm ached dully from the position. ‘Here,’ she said. She handed Timmy a bottle of champagne. Timmy clasped it in his free hand and took a large swig. ‘That cad is still trying to clear out the place. He sent me to come see.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Don’t ya recognise me?’ she smirked. Timmy attempted to place her to no avail. She rolled her eyes playfully. ‘I’m that big goon’s sister.’

‘His sister?’ Timmy choked. He felt the shame and embarrassment filing his body inch by inch. He took another swig.

‘Don’t be alarmed. I’m not staying. Just come to check that you’re still peachy.’

‘I’m fine,’ Timmy breathed. ‘Can I keep the bottle?’

‘Sure thing, honey.’

‘How long have I been out?’

‘Not long. I’d say about half hour.’ Timmy nodded his head. ‘You want anything, sugar?’

‘No,’ Timmy said. ‘Thankyou.’

    The door creaked open. Mr Hammer strolled through the entrance. The young woman ran up to him and threw her arm around his shoulder.

‘This one’s a real baby vamp, Armie,’ she whispered.

‘I know. Thanks for checking on him. There’s still a few people out there. Bobby and Vinny just won’t go home. Could you get ‘em in taxis for me?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’re the top, Margot,’ he crooned. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You gunna get home safe? Want my driver to take you back?’

‘You sure it’s not too much trouble? Don’t your people ever sleep?’

‘I suspect that they’ll have light list of duties tomorrow.’ Mr Hammer’s guise settled on Timmy and he tries to act like he’d not ear wigging into their conversation. ‘Take the damn car or I’ll worry that you never made it back.’

‘Okay okay, you big goon. I’ll take the car.’

‘Good.’

Margot started to walk away. ‘See you fairies later.’ Margot disappeared into the quieter sphere outside of Mr Hammer’s bedroom.

Mr Hammer laughed. ‘She’s a bearcat when she wants to be.’

    Mr Hammer was there by Timmy in a matter of seconds. ‘Here.’ He made light work of untying the rope and Timmy groaned as his arm dropped onto the bed, seizing up from the change in position.

‘You okay?’

‘Me okay.’

‘You ready for this?’

Timmy cleared his throat, sitting up properly and resting against the headboard. ‘What exactly is ‘this’?’

‘I’ll put you over me knee like the bad little boy you are and cane you. Maybe after, if you’re real sorry – I’ll -,’ Mr Hammer purred.

‘Choke me with it whilst you – move in me,’ Timmy croaked.

Mr Hammer raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You want that?’ Almost as if he didn’t quite believe that he heard the boy right.

‘Yes,’ Timmy hissed.

‘Then that sounds swell to me. Now lay back and let me look at your wrist.’

Timmy made no excuses to himself – in fact, he made a pact not to think altogether. He was going to let this happen and be at one with the sense that this was his life _now_ – all the shame and regret of being made _someone’s_ would still be there later. But this was a fleeting moment; drifting more into being a memory with every passing second and he wanted to taste it. He wanted to live it from the soles of his feet to the top of his soul.


	2. Chapter 2

Timmy breathed in and out, feeling his tummy expand and deflate on Mr Hammer’s thighs. He could feel Mr Hammer’s semi-hard cock, struggling against the man’s trousers, beneath him. He picked up the cane that he had placed next to them on the bed. His other hand was firmly clenching at Timmy’s buttocks, squeezing tightly.

‘You a little strumpet?’

‘Yes,’ Timmy breathed.

‘Just a regular whore,’ Mr Hammer derided. Timmy’s stomach stirred with a feeling of lustful excitement at his words. Having this thick set man consuming his body made him feel safe. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Timmy hummed.

‘Tell me Timothée, have you got daddy issues?’

‘Issues with you, sir? None at all.’

Mr Hammer chuckled. ‘You’re a good boy. It almost seems like such a shame that I have to do this to you.’

Timmy wriggled slightly with anticipation. Being fully naked over a fully dressed person’s knee was too much for him to handle. Mr Hammer gripped onto him more firmly. ‘Did I give you permission to move?’ Timmy shook his head; his eyes large and apologetic. ‘That settles it. Count out loud to five for me.’

Before Timmy even had a second to process the events unfolding around him, Mr Hammer delivered a hard blow to his backside. Timmy let out a twisted groan that couldn’t decide if it was conceived in pleasure or pain. ‘You want to relieve yourself, don’t you?’ Timmy nodded frantically. ‘Then why aren’t you counting?’

‘One,’ Timmy gulped.

‘Good.’ Mr Hammer delivered the next one. Timmy’s skin grew salmon at the contact and he struggled to be good; to stay still and take it. Mr Hammer exhibited no mercy – three more strikes hit him in quick succession. Timmy wreathed and Mr Hammer pulled on the boy’s curly dark locks. ‘Stop fidgeting.’ He delivered the last hit more gently than the rest.

‘Five,’ Timmy whispered.

Mr Hammer stroked the swollen skin softly causing Timmy to cuss. Then the man bent down and lick Timmy’s fractured cheek, his tongue trailing along the curve as the pink of his tongue blended with the pink of his ass. Timmy moaned softly as the motion gave light relief from the stubborn stinging that would linger like a ghost for days to come and remind him of what they did. His cock throbbed impatiently as he bled pre-come all over Mr Hammer’s thighs.

‘How are you doing?’ Mr Hammer smiled, for a second all of the power and confidence appeared to have fallen away.

‘Fine, sir.’

‘Then I haven’t been tough enough on you. On your hands and knees now,’ Mr Hammer decreed, with a look of pure animalism as if he had been possessed by a rabid dog. Timmy swallowed sharply as he scrambled off Mr Hammer’s body and crawled along the bed until he could competently rest on all fours. When he turned to glance at Mr Hammer, he was stood up – returning the cane to its position in the room. Timmy whimpered quietly.

‘What was that?’ Mr Hammer insisted. Timmy remained silent. ‘You got something to say then spit it out.’

‘I thought – we were going to – use the -,’ Timmy murmured. His face grew scarlet with every passing syllable until he eventually trailed off, having embarrassed himself enough.

Mr Hammer ran his fingers over the head of the cane.

‘You want it? You really want it?’

‘Yes. Yes please, sir.’

‘Then fucking beg me for it.’

Timmy shuffled on his hands. ‘Please,’ he said quietly.

‘You call that begging?’

‘Please sir,’ Timmy piped up. ‘I don’t want you to stop.’

‘What _do_ you want?’

‘I want you to – to choke me – with the cane as you fuck me,’ Timmy all but sobbed.

Mr Hammer glanced between the cane and Timmy as if he was considering it. His fingers absentmindedly smoothed through his hair, Timmy watched – praying that this man would touch him like that, even if only once. ‘Please. Please. _Please_.’

‘As much as I enjoy how desperate you are and your lack of dignity…’

‘I’m begging you.’

Mr Hammer let out an expression of mock sympathy. ‘The answer is no.’

Timmy thought that he would change his mind and stick with the scene they planned. However, when Mr Hammer started to walk back towards the bed, it became apparent that was a pipe dream. The man marched forward, standing over Timmy’s body and grabbed a handful of hair – pulling his head back until he bared his throat and his back arched perfectly. He leant down to the boy’s ear and his breath made Timmy shiver. ‘You think you can tell me what to do, huh? You’re nothing but a downtown bootlegger. You’re lucky if someone like me even goddamn looks at you.’

Timmy’s skin burnt from Mr Hammer’s change of pace. The man purposefully moved within his vision and there was a look down in his eyes that said ‘I don’t really mean this. It’s all part of the scene’. In that moment, Timmy wasn’t sure how much we would have minded if he had been genuine; he had submitted himself to this air tight Adonis of a man and he felt like he was being smothered by him but in the sweetest, most beautiful way possible.

   Mr Hammer roughly unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it away from his skin. Timmy turned back to stare at the wall in fear that if he looked at the man, he’d struggle to look away ever again. Behind him, the man continued to undress until he was fully exposed. Timmy expected him to say something; anything but instead Mr Hammer simply brought his mouth to the back of Timmy’s thighs, kissing them chastely – slowly until goose bumps appeared.

Timmy clenched his hands into the sheet. He wasn’t going to be broken so easily. Then, to Timmy’s utter surprise Mr Hammer bared his teeth and bit down into the back of his pale thigh, causing Timmy to simultaneously pull away and moan breathily.

‘Don’t move,’ Mr Hammer snapped. He repeated his action again, a little further down. Timmy knew what this was, after all it was 1925. Ownership. Later, Timmy would be able to trace his fingertips across the marks and know exactly who did that to him. ‘Tongue and fingers?’ Mr Hammer asked, as nonchalantly as asking about the weather in Manhattan.

Timmy thought about it. He was already tight – he had a new found tragic empathy for the ballerina that spun round and round on his mother’s music box when he used to watch her get ready in the mornings to go to work. She’d wind and wind the figure up until the cog sounded like it might snap – that’s where Timmy was; Mr Hammer was holding onto his key and not letting go, suspending him there – stuck with nothing but a sense of inferiority and a lack of control.

‘Tongue or fingers?’ Mr Hammer repeated. ‘Timothée?’

He didn’t have the strength to wait. He wanted the man inside him. ‘Fingers,’ Timmy finally replied. He felt Mr Hammer linger behind him, hesitating. ‘I still want this. Fingers,’ Timmy said, more assertively.

‘You won’t be saying that by the time I’m done with you, baby.’

‘Promises,’ Timmy hushed.

Mr Hammer’s laugh vibrated against his back as he shuffled closer. ‘Don’t make me have to take you over my knee again.’

Timmy suppressed a groan. Mr Hammer stretched forward. ‘Open.’ Timmy obeyed, opening his mouth as the man pressed his fingers into it. ‘Suck. Show me what you can do.’

Timmy hollowed out his cheeks, bobbing his head on his fingers; getting them nice and wet. He pushed his tongue against them, letting his saliva stick to them as much as he could. ‘Good.’

Mr Hammer took them away quickly. ‘You sure about this? Don’t wanna change your mind and go home to your mother now?’

‘I’m sure. Do it already,’ Timmy croaked. He was shaking, from fear or anticipation, he couldn’t quite decipher.

‘Damn,’ Mr Hammer cussed. If I knew you were such a little dick diva then I would have fucked you like this the first time we met.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Timmy thought. Before he had time to explore that thought to its end, Mr Hammer’s hands came to fall on his ass cheeks, stroking along the purple lines where the cane had connected with his skin. He used one hand to prize him open and plunged his middle finger in with the other. Timmy breathed out steadily, trying to be still like Mr Hammer wanted. It wasn’t long until Timmy had two fingers inside him, every single second turning long and torturous as he attempted to be good; to stay quiet and still. Mr Hammer spat down on his hole. Timmy didn’t even realise he was biting on his bottom lip until he gnawed too hard.

      ‘You’re shaking,’ Mr Hammer said, with obvious delight in his voice. Timmy didn’t notice that either. Mr Hammer added another finger which was where things started to get tricky. Mr Hammer went slowly as Timmy’s body resisted against the pressure. It took a few minutes for him to be stretched enough. The man stretched his fingers out inside him, Timmy felt the purposeful burn. He cussed under his breath. ‘You’re so tight and I’m not even inside you yet.’

Timmy’s body was _aching_ to be ravaged. He pushed himself back into Mr Hammer’s stomach, fingers still inside him. He tried to buckle down on them but Mr Hammer rapidly removed them. ‘Steady yourself, eager one.’ Timmy gulped, regaining some sort of composure; shuffling on the bed until he was well balanced.

He felt the tip of Mr Hammer’s cock press at his entrance and he held his breath. He was painstakingly slow – inching himself in then pulling out and then going further inside him. Timmy could feel himself losing it. Just as Timmy was about to abandon all composure – Mr Hammer thickly pulled out and rammed back into him. Timmy whined at the sensation. Mr Hammer bucked his hips hot and heavy after that, pounding into him as though his life depended on it. Both of them let out a slur of breaths and murmurs.

‘You’re so pretty,’ Mr Hammer panted. Timmy made an inaudible noise in response.

‘I can’t hold on –,’ Timmy gasped.

The bed waned at the rough motions of the two bodies. ‘Then don’t,’ came Mr Hammer’s curt response.

Timmy groaned loudly as he came, his load covering the soft sheets. He panted rapidly like an animal of prey that had just escaped capture – body static as he relaxed into it, letting himself become more placid. Mr Hammer’s succession was swift, moaning brashly as he emptied himself inside of Timmy. He pulled back and Timmy let himself collapse, body sinking into the confines of the comforting fabric that held both of them. Mr Hammer was waiting, Timmy turned to view his expression as his load slipped out of him and dribbled down his leg. ‘That’s perfect,’ the man muttered, eyes wide and mouth slack.

    Mr Hammer took his place next to Timmy. Timmy felt a warm arm slide over him and clutch onto his tummy, pulling them closer. Mr Hammer kissed the back of Timmy’s neck. ‘Sleep for a little while,’ he lulled. ‘Then I’ll get you a taxi home.’ He stroked through his dark, curly locks delicately; affectionately and it was impossible for Timmy not to close his eyes on the duck feathered pillow and let himself drift off.  

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow,’ Mr Hammer whispered.

‘Why so, sir?’ Timmy said sleepily.

‘We still have business to discuss.’ He thought that the man said something else afterwards but he had already sailed away into sleep, comforted by the knowledge that _Armie_ would still be there when he woke up.


End file.
